


Poker Faces and Lost Marbles

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Psych
Genre: Drugged Sex, Drugs, Ejaculation, Explicit Sexual Content, Fellatio, Gen, Kidnapping, Misunderstandings, Past Rape/Non-con, Whump, blowjob, child pornography, poor shawn, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6945973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a burglar with a conscience sends in a box of taped child pornography and murder, Detectives Lassiter and O’Hara are assigned to the case. But they are shocked to find that one victim, the only survivor, is someone close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to: The anonymous user who wondered how a story like my earlier “Someone Tried to Kill the Vampire!” might have been if Shawn had been a teenager when it happened. This one turned out a lot more explicit and much darker, and the stories are completely unrelated.

Prolog

“There’s a note.”

Chief Vick held out her gloved hand for it, and the young officer who had opened the cardboard box—one of those medium-sized moving boxes that was sealed with packing tape—gave it to her. It was a yellow sticky note, though it was no longer sticky after having been peeled off the grainy container, and dampened from the recent rain.

 _I stole these from address written on flap of box,_ the note said. Vick’s eyes flicked to the mysterious thing again, catching the numbers written in black sharpie as indicated, in the same tiny chicken-scratch writing as the note. She resumed her reading. _It’s kiddie porn._

The Chief frowned severely, stomach clenching hotly. If there was one thing that made her angrier than sickening crimes like murder, it was rape—especially the rape of children. As a mother, she could only imagine how it would feel to know your child went through such a devastating event, and if her daughter _ever_ did, then she would have a personal vendetta. But she couldn’t rely on a note to discover the truth. For all she knew, the stack of blank-cased DVDs and CD-ROMs were bootlegged Disney movies.

“Get these dusted for prints, and find out who lives at that address. Check the security cameras and see who managed to drop this off on our front steps without being detected. Detective Lassiter,” she said, turning to him, and he to her. He had been standing aside, looking a little too longingly at the box. It was obvious that he wanted the case. “Once that’s all done, I want you and O’Hara to take these to the viewing room and figure out if our burglar with a conscience,” she waved the sticky note emphatically, “is telling the truth.”

“Yes, Chief,” he said in all seriousness.

She gave him an approving nod and retreated to her office, presumably to continue working or to stew about this particular case. As far as Lassiter was concerned, the rapist—or _rapists_ , if there were more than one—needed to be stopped and imprisoned. Whether the owner of the porn was a producer, a distributor, or a client, he would be charged to the fullest extent of the law. If it _was_ porn, anyway. He wasn’t sure how reliable a thief’s hasty sticky note was.

SBPD’s head detective pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message to his partner, explaining the situation. He told her to cut the lunch run short, indicating that he wanted to get started as quickly as possible. There were children’s innocence at stake, after all.

Juliet responded in thirty-two seconds: _Already bought. Besides, we’ll need these sandwiches. Back in ten._

He didn’t bother to respond. Lassiter was quite certain that he’d vomit anything he’d managed to eat, if this really was kiddie porn. While he appreciated the adult business as much as the next guy (he was a _man_ , after all, and a recently divorced one at that), it was precisely that: an _adult_ business. If children were being harmed, especially in Santa Barbara, Lassiter was making it his personal mission to fight for them. Even if it meant bypassing his lunch, or even regurgitating it for their sakes.

Not that he’d ever mention it.

By the time Juliet arrived back at the station bearing two plastic Subway bags, the first video had been dusted, placed in an evidence bag, and clearly labeled. The head detective insisted that they get started, just to see if the videos _were_ what they were claimed to be, and their lunches were tucked into his desk drawer for safe-keeping (food was as often subject to thievery in the heart of the police force as any other workplace). With the single readied disk in his hand, Detective Lassiter led his partner to the evidence room, which was equipped with several video players—one for the out-of-date VHS cassette tapes as well, not that they were using that one.

While Lassiter fiddled with the electronics, Juliet donned a pair of gloves and opened the evidence bag to retrieve the DVD. She placed it in the disk tray of the player and pushed it in, then sat in the rolling chair that Lassiter dragged over from the nearby computer desk. He lowered himself into a regular wooden seat, one leg crossed over the other. Juliet watched the screen, arms folded, as Lassiter glared at the remote in his hand. At last, he found the ‘play’ button and pushed it.

“Aren’t these things supposed to start automatically?” he said.

The junior detective shrugged. She thought so, but she wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe it depended on the player.

The film began:

_“Shoot, Rowland!”_

_A tall, blurry figure came into focus, staring up at something out of the viewing range of the camera. He tossed an orange basketball up, propelling it out of the shot with a practiced flick of the wrists. A triumphant grin flitted across his face, and he turned and ran back across the court. The camera followed, zooming in more as the tall teen grew smaller with distance._

_The playground court, made of cracked asphalt with faded paint and crumbled along the measured edges, was swarming with boys. It was a sunny day, and all of them were wearing outside gear, appropriate for playing sports. They laughed and whooped freely, passing the ball and bouncing it all across the court in their game. Back and forth, back and forth, sometimes scoring and sometimes rebounding, fouls here and there._

_A normal basketball game._

Lassiter frowned as the game dragged on. It had been at least ten minutes since the start of it. Though the cameraman was obviously far enough away to not be a parent recording son and friends, apparently he wasn’t close enough to garner suspicions, either. And as far as Lassiter could tell, this wasn’t child pornography, unless pedophiles got off on tall, sweaty teens named Rowland running around half-naked in yellow basketball shorts. Juliet was watching with a straight, unreadable expression.

He half considered hitting the fast-forward button, but then the camera was moving:

_There was a rickety wooden bench a ways from the old court, meant to seat game-watchers or to offer rest to the players. The boys had utilized it as a locker: various shirts and jackets were slung over, hanging pitifully; a capped inhaler sat readily on a neatly-folded red T-shirt; and a host of plastic water and sports bottles in all colors and sizes crowded one end. The camera crouched behind the bench, no longer focused on Rowland, but on the condensating receptacles. A thin, tanned hand grasped a certain red one and lifted it. A messy scrawl in black marker read ‘Rowland H.’_

_The hand uncapped the bottle with a quick flip of the thumb and squeezed a small, palm-sized bottle. Several clear droplets fell into the water, mixing invisibly. The bottle was capped, and the camera retreated back to its hiding place. Now the focus was again on Rowland, who was scoring his team a three-pointer, much to their excitement._

_It seemed to have concluded the game, the winning points in favor of Rowland’s team. They, grinning and laughing, clapped each other the backs and sneered good-naturedly at the losers, moving toward the bench to collect their things. Most went directly for the water, taking large gulps with their heads thrown back to reveal their bobbing Adam’s apples. Rivulets of sweat beaded down their cheeks and chests, flushed with heat._

_The camera remained almost exclusively focused on Rowland as he drank from the same red bottle that had been tainted with a drug, presumably GHB in its liquid form._

Lassiter found it impossible to believe that this was a spur-of-the-moment drug and kidnap. It had been planned. The cameraman had taken the time to do his research—where Rowland would be at a certain time, which bottle was his, and even how he would leave. As he watched, the friends bid one another goodbye, promising to meet up again tomorrow morning—it must have been summertime.

_Rowland, nursing his water bottle and slinging a white t-shirt over his shoulder, turned and strode across the green lawn of the park. There were several trees offering long branches thick with leaves for shade, but the teen passed them, kicking a battered pinecone ahead of him. His friends had all gone in different directions, leaving him to go home alone. The camera followed like a dog on its master’s heels._

_The teen up ahead swiped a hand across his forehead and dug a knuckle into his temple as though massaging a headache. He slowed to a stop and leaned against the closest tree, slightly hunched as though he were about to be sick all over his scuffed basketball shoes. When he didn’t vomit, he uncapped his bottle and took a small sip, evidently believing it would make him feel better—and in any other circumstance, it probably would have. But the poor kid was only adding drugs to his system._

_The guy behind the camera made his move._

_It was a reedy sort of voice that spoke, the camera angling down slightly as though to encourage the idea that he wasn’t recording the bout of illness before him. “You all right there, kiddo?”_

_Rowland looked up, face pale and beaded with sweat that was likely more from dizziness and nausea than his earlier exertion. “‘M fine,” he answered feebly, rubbing his flat belly with a fist. “Just need a minute, sir.”_

_“Need a ride home? I’m parked just over there.”_

_The kid glanced up and then to the side, presumably to where a finger had pointed. “That’s your car?”_

_“Yeah. Where d’you live?”_

_Rowland hesitated for a minute, clearly remembering that handing out his address or getting rides from strangers was dangerous and more likely than not frowned-upon by his parents. “No, I’ll be fine. Thank you, though, sir.”_

_He pushed away from the tree and made to leave, only to take a tumble onto the ground, his long limbs trembling like a newborn colt’s._

_“Shit,” said the cameraman concernedly, kneeling beside him. He was wearing a pair of pressed blue jeans. “You okay? Hey, come on. Let me help you, kid. You look like you need it…Is this your water? Here, have a bit more of it. You’ll feel bet...”_

The screen went black for a moment, the recording session having been cut off, but nearly instantly a new picture formed on the television. The detectives went rigid in their seats, hearts palpitating in horror and disgust.

It was indeed child pornography.

They didn’t need to see any more. It was time to make an arrest.


	2. Part One

Part One

Shawn Spencer flounced into the bullpen, eyes scanning the room for Lassiter and Juliet, but didn’t see them. Assuming they were out for lunch, as they sometimes did, he moseyed over to Lassiter’s desk and took a seat, surreptitiously rifling through the contents and switching all the hi-liter caps, but not before sticking his wad of pineapple-flavored bubblegum underneath the desk, in the precise place Lassiter put his hands so as to pull his rolling chair forward. He tugged open a drawer, and was slightly surprised to find two Subway sandwiches tucked inside. A touch informed him that they were cold.

That meant lunch had been interrupted.

            But by what? A call? He hadn’t heard anything on his (well, his dad’s, but he was borrowing it for a bit) police scanner.

            He spun the chair around to look across the room, where the stairs led down to the holding cells and interrogation rooms. That seemed as reasonable a course to take as any.

            Shawn hadn’t worked his psychic magic in a while, and since Gus was out of town on a week-long business conference and wouldn’t answer his phone, he had absolutely nothing to do. Even his dad had used his day off to go fishing, only half-heartedly inviting his son to come along (Shawn, of course, had refused). That left his only friends, besides the churro guy, at the police station.

            The pseudo-psychic clomped downstairs, eyes swiveling in every direction. So far, nothing new—except for that box sitting on a table inside the viewing room, which tempted him, but he more wanted to find his dear detectives than rifle through the contents of said box at the moment. He would go back for it.

            In the holding cells, there was only a drunk sleeping off the effects of too much alcohol, so he turned and went deeper into the heart of the station, where the cold interrogation rooms were. The first was empty, if the open doors were any indication. Interrogation Room B’s door was shut, but the viewing room door wasn’t, and he heard a familiar rumble of voices coming from inside it.

            Smiling, he sidled closer to the entrance so he could catch a snippet of conversation without being caught. One of the first words he caught was a heated “pedophile” from Lassiter, which Shawn immediately surmised was the culprit being held in the interrogation room. But Vick merely sighed and said, “But his face was not in the video, Detective, so we can’t be sure yet—not unless he confesses.”

            Shawn thought back to the box in the darkened video room, and, putting it together with the pedophile clue, came to the conclusion that they were dealing with child pornography. He wrinkled his nose, but straightened his face out and stepped into the room, with a pleasant, “Hey, Lassie! Jules. Chief Vick, how are you?”

            They looked up at him, momentarily startled, but the women relaxed a bit when they saw it was only him. Lassiter only looked more stressed out.

            “Spencer,” he growled, “now is not the time!”

            “But I had a disturbing vision!” Shawn exclaimed, putting his finger to his temple in his signature psychic pose.

            At that Juliet and the Chief seemed much more interested.

            “What did you see, Shawn?” Juliet asked.

            “Well,” he said, a bit hesitantly. He couldn’t exactly describe the porn if he’d never seen it, let alone the faceless entity in the video that had apparently done the taping—and worse. But he could take a wild guess, especially if he managed to catch sight of whoever was in the room. Shawn moved closer to the group on the pretense of speaking more quietly, and he cast his eyes to the side, past Juliet, and in through the glass.

            A cold vise clamped around his chest suddenly, and he found himself unable to breathe. His heart pumped frantically against his ribs, but his blood was frozen. Invisible, hot hands slid roughly across his skin, a puff of putrid breath across his cheek. It took a long moment before sound reached his ears again, and he realized that not only were his friends calling his name, but they sounded concerned—even Lassiter’s gruff tone.

            He shook himself and uttered, “Th—that’s him.”

            They blinked at him and looked in at the man hunched over the table, wrists shackled in handcuffs, then back at Shawn and his trembling form.

            “Who?” Chief Vick pressed.

            “The bad man,” Shawn whispered, eyes wide and staring. “Red dot camera. Black mask…The needle.” Then he forced himself to blink and look away, clenching his shaking fingers into fists in an attempt to still them. It didn’t quite work.

            “Needle?” Lassiter frowned. “What needle?”

            But Shawn shook his head and stepped back so that he wouldn’t be able to see into the interrogation room anymore. “The needle,” he repeated meaningfully, still backing out as he stared hard at Lassiter. “The needle. He had it.”

            The detectives watched him in concern, but didn’t press him for any more answers or follow him.

            “Well,” Lassiter cleared his throat once Shawn was gone. “At least he’s not making light of this one. Finally, a case that can phase that man!”

            “Hmm,” Juliet replied.

            They returned to their conversation, Vick still frowning thoughtfully. “You said you didn’t watch the entire first video, or any of the rest yet?”

            “No, Chief,” Juliet said. “We went and made the arrest as soon as there was evidence that there was sexual abuse. We haven’t even touched the other nineteen DVDs.”

            “And he hasn’t admitted to anything,” Lassiter jerked his head back. “Not a sound out of him, even before we read him his rights. He hasn’t had any previous run-ins with the law—not even a parking ticket.”

            “Watch the rest of the first video, at least,” Vick said. “We might catch the rapist’s identity. Keep an eye out especially for that needle Mr. Spencer mentioned.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” they said, dread filling the pits of their bellies.

            The Chief paused and gave them a sympathetic look. “I know it’s not ideal,” she said, “but I trust you two with this case.”

            The detectives nodded understandingly.

Detectives Lassiter and O’Hara continued watching the videos after having a half-hearted lunch of cold and soggy Subway. Neither of them managed to finish their sandwiches. Instead, they filled a couple of mugs with hot black coffee and trudged to the viewing room. Juliet put the trash bin between them in case of emergency.

They put the first CD back into the player, and Lassiter skipped forward to where they’d left off—the beginning of the horror. Both sat by with notepads and pens, determinedly jotting down a list of offenses and documenting what the rapist did, the characteristics of the boy and his attacker, and wrote down any locational clues so that they could try and find the victim.

            But after a half hour, the rapist seemed to have finished up and left the boy lying unconscious on the dirty mattress, the camera still rolling.

After a few minutes he returned with something in his hands, and rolled Rowland onto his back. This roused the teen, who looked about groggily, and then made panicked noises in his throat and sluggishly tried to move. The rapist, whose face remained covered with a Halloween ski mask (which attested to Shawn’s words and unease), shushed him and turned his head to one side, exposing the tender flesh of his neck.

            Then the object in his hands was revealed: a syringe.

            The needle (proving Shawn’s vision, but such a horrible sight that Lassiter couldn’t even be frustrated at the how question he’d always asked of the man’s methods) glinted ominously as the rapist lowered it, and disappeared into his skin—where his jugular would be. Rowland moaned as the substance was injected, but he was still unable to move properly for the GHB in his system.

            His rapist sat back and set the then empty syringe aside, and stroked the teen’s belly as though he were a dog. He murmured soft, comforting words that the camera didn’t quite pick up. And it was with a growing sense of dread that the detectives realized that Rowland was being put down like a beloved pet.

            “No,” Juliet said sadly as the convulsions began.

            In only a few moments Rowland was dead.

            The DVD ended and returned to the main screen.

            Lassiter and Juliet sat in silence for a long time, staving off the emotional effects of the video, and trying to sort through their thoughts. The Head Detective glanced uneasily to the box on the table, the discs inside of it calling him, as though the children within the videos were desperate to be seen and heard, to finally be helped, their spirits only to be put to rest when their rapist and killer was identified and brought to justice.

            Juliet followed his gaze.

            “They’re not going anywhere,” she said. “But we won’t be able to hold this guy for possession for long. He’ll bail out unless we can get something more serious to stick.”

            “The longer we leave these,” Lassiter said, “the harder it will be to come back and finish them.”

            She nodded in agreement, but neither moved.

            But after two minutes, Lassiter forced his limbs to work, and he went to the box to choose the next one. There were no dates on the cases, and he doubted rapists were stupid enough to turn on the time stamp setting on the cameras, so there wasn’t much telling when these events took place. Or even if all twenty videos were created by the same person.

            The thought made him sick.

            He chose the next one at random, and replaced the disc that was already in the player with the new one, putting the first back into its proper case and label. Lassiter and Juliet steeled themselves.

            This video was much the same as the first: _a group of teen boys were out playing, this time an easy-going soccer match. There were no goals, and it seemed that no one was really trying to score, only pass the ball around like a game of keep-away. Again, the camera seemed to focus exclusively on one boy, but he wasn’t tall and fair like Rowland had been. This kid was stockier and had dark skin, smaller than the rest of his friends—probably a younger brother to one of them who had tagged along._

_The boy grew tired and left the game to sit in the shade of a tree, near the cameraman. He made his move and approached, angling the camera slightly down as though to insinuate he wasn’t recording._

_“Hey there,” spoke the reedy voice._

_“Hi,” the boy said shyly._

_“I saw you playing out there. You’re really good.”_

_“Oh. Thank you.”_

_“Thirsty?” A hand appeared, proffering a bottle of Snapple. “I picked this up at the store, but I didn’t realize it was Strawberry Lime until I opened it. I didn’t drink out of it, though.”_

_The boy looked uncertain. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he said. “Or take things from them.”_

_“You’re not taking it,” the voice said kindly. “I’m offering. There’s a difference.”_

_He still didn’t look convinced. But then his eyes landed longingly on the Snapple. “Well,” he said slowly, tentatively reaching up. “I am thirsty. And Strawberry Lime is my favorite.”_

_“Wow, really? Then here, definitely have it. Enjoy, kid.”_

_“Thanks, mister!”_

_The man behind the camera moved away, but angled back to get a shot of the boy drinking from the bottle, downing nearly half the juice in three gulps, head tossed back. While the boy was distractedly wiping his lip on collar of his shirt, the camera ducked behind a tree and continued to watch him._

_It wasn’t long before the kid grew drowsy and dropped off to sleep._

_The older boys were too immersed in a shouting match over some foul or another to notice the younger boy being gathered up into a stranger’s arms and carried off._

The screen blanked for a moment, but a new image was rendered almost instantly, displaying a new place, new filthy mattress on the floor. But it the same man with the ski mask, violating the boy, who cried helplessly as he was touched, as he was kissed, as he was penetrated. He, too, was given a fatal dose of something from a syringe.

            _Sickening_ , was all the detectives could think.

            But their eyes remained dry, emotions suppressed. The boys were counting on them to bring justice to them, and that couldn’t be done if they were sobbing in fetal positions on the floor, lying in pools of regurgitated coffee and meatball marinara subs.

            So they continued.

            Most of the videos lasted about half an hour, depending on how long the exposition was—a lot of time was dedicated to watching the boys who played shirtless, particularly the boy who had showed off his flexibility to impress a few nearby girls at the park. Every recording began with a group of teens playing outside, and ended with the overdose of one.

            It was hard on the detectives.

            At last, Juliet, looking haggard and several years older, said, “This has to be the last one for today, Carlton.”

            “Fine,” he said curtly, secretly relieved that he wasn’t the one who’d had to admit weakness.

            He retrieved Episode 9 from the box. They were almost halfway through, but it was also nearly six o’clock, and though he wasn’t hungry, he would play it off as though he were just to have an excuse to stop the torture for a while.

            Immediately they noticed that this video was different than the others.

            Rather than an outdoor setting, this one was in a gym, and the room was full of mostly girls. A dance practice, judging from the loose, sleeveless shirts, ponytails and buns, and shorts. As far as the detectives could see, there were only three boys present, and one of them appeared to be the instructor’s assistant, who was shouting out directions in a voice that echoed too much to be understood from the camera’s distance.

            _The students were called into a sort of huddle around their teacher, and the cameraman made his move toward the wall where a cluster of jackets, shoes, and water bottles were. His hand reached for a specific one: a_ ThunderCats _thermos with a red cap, oddly out of place among the more age appropriate drinkware. He unlidded it and dumped in a powdery substance, presumably a less processed batch of GHB, and then put it back where he found it._

_Then he was hurrying back to his hiding place, zooming in to watch the dancers—particularly one of the boys in particular. This boy, no older than fifteen, was also different from the others, further reinforcing that the rapist’s only preference was pre-pubescent boys, not very picky about looks. He stretched his arms over his head, causing his shirt to rise and reveal a couple inches of pale skin._

_The boy responded to something his instructor said with a goofy smile, toed off his shoes, and jumped onto the stage with his assigned partner. A catchy beat started up from a radio perched on the edge of the stage, and the pair began to move in unison, perfectly in time with the instructor’s called numbers._

Even Lassiter was a bit impressed with the professional, talented way the boy moved. He was incredibly good and obviously took it very seriously.

            _Before the dance was finished, the instructor stopped the music and had the pair repeat a couple of moves several times until they’d done it the way she wanted. Then it seemed practice was over, because the team, after another brief huddle, began to pack up their things and leave._

_The camera followed the boy over to the water bottles and watched him guzzle from the_ ThunderCats _thermos. He stood around laughing with a few friends for a few minutes, nursing his water before bidding them goodbye. The boy lifted the hem of his shirt, giving the camera a full view of his belly and a peek of a pink nipple, and wiped his sweaty forehead._

_Then he was on his way._

The screen blanked and was replaced with a new image, this one outside the Santa Barbara high school, home of the Dons. It struck Lassiter hard in the gut as he suddenly realized just how close to home this one was. The school was only a few miles away from the station.

            _The boy sat on the curb of the pick-up zone, his bag behind him, obviously waiting for a parent to fetch him. He sat hunched over his knees, head resting on his folded arms._

_The camera approached, angled downward, as usual. “Hey there. Need a ride?” asked the reedy voice._

_“No. M’dad’s just a li’l late,” the boy slurred without looking up._

_“You sure? You don’t look too good. I’ve got a phone in my car, if you want to call someone.”_

_At last, the kid angled his head up to look at the pestering stranger, eyes squinted in an oddly familiar way. “My dad is running a bit late today,” he enunciated. “I bet he had to arrest someone.” He dropped his head back down._

The detectives’ stomachs dropped at the same moment, mouths drying. Lassiter suddenly didn’t want to be on the case anymore.

            _“Yeah, your dad’s the head detective of the SBPD, isn’t he?” the stranger said. “I know him. I’m not going to kidnap you or anything, buddy. That would be stupid. Besides, you obviously don’t feel too well. I can just give you a ride home so you can go to sleep.”_

_The kid seemed to consider this for a moment, then squinted up again. “Fine,” he said. “But if you drive a windowless van I’m running and screaming.”_

_The stranger chuckled, and the teen accepted a hand up, swaying slightly._

The camera went black for a split second.

_The lens focused on a small figure lying prone on a dirty mattress on a cement floor. He mumbled incoherently, eyes half lidded and roaming about the room without really taking anything in._

_He didn’t seem to notice the mattress dipping under the weight of the kidnapper, who knelt beside him and began to caress him through his clothes. The man, wearing his usual ski mask, leaned down and murmured into the kid’s ear. This woke him a little, and as his eyes locked on the mask he made a confused, frightened sound._

_The man sat up, rubbing the kid’s arm in what would have been a comforting gesture had it not been such a frightening situation. “Hush,” he said, loud enough for the camera to pick up. “Hush, it’s all right, Shawn.”_

Though deep down Juliet and Lassiter had already known who the boy was, it was at last confirmed. There was no mistaking it, even with the fear on his young face.

            _Shawn didn’t calm down._

_He clumsily pushed his kidnapper away, stuttering out incomprehensible syllables, and tried to roll to his feet. But his attacker was unfazed. He easily maneuvered Shawn back into position, his other hand simultaneously reaching behind him and bringing a bottle of vodka into the frame._

_“Nuhhh,” Shawn moaned, turning his face away when the neck was brought to his lips._

_“Yes,” said the man, digging his thumb and middle finger into the hinges of Shawn’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. He poured the liquid in, and Shawn recoiled, gagging and choking weakly. Alcohol splashed everywhere._

_But the rapist seemed satisfied that his victim had ingested some, and took a swig of it himself before setting the bottle aside. Shawn gasped and choked a little, and his kidnapper stroked him._

_When he had regained his breath, Shawn began to babble indistinctly, shaking his head back and forth, trying and failing to talk his way out of the terrible situation. His struggles, though not much to begin with, grew more sluggish as the drugs in his system were compounded by the alcohol._

_The rapist leaned over the boy, and pressed a kiss to Shawn’s lips, then trailed to his jawline, and then his neck. Shawn whimpered as hands that were not his own slid up his shirt and fondled his chest. With helpless tears rolling across his temples and to his hairline, Shawn tried to push the man’s face away from his neck, his hands off of him; he tried to roll over; to kick his feet; but his body wouldn’t behave._

_His shirt was removed, revealing pale, smooth skin. The attacker sat back and appreciated it for a moment before moving in again, latching his mouth around one nipple and pinching the other with his fingers. Shawn’s hands fumbled up and tried to push him off again, this time more strongly._

_The man sat up sharply and slapped Shawn hard on the shoulder. Shawn gave a soft cry of pain, and the rapist grasped his face and forcibly turned it so that the boy was staring into the eye holes of the mask. “Stop it,” he said. “Don’t make me hurt you, Shawn. This doesn’t have to hurt.” Then he softened, using a thumb to wipe away a tear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make you feel good.”_

Lassiter bent over the trashcan between him and his partner and lost his lunch.

            Juliet stopped the video. “We shouldn’t be watching this,” she said, eyes wide. “It’s Shawn!”

            Head Detective Lassiter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened, feeling a bit better, but also partly ashamed. There certainly was a moral dilemma. He knew that the case could be handed over to federal jurisdiction, but he was loath to do that, especially now that he knew there was at least one survivor—Shawn Spencer.

            He also knew that if they discussed it with the Chief, she would want to hand over the case. But what would Spencer want?

            Lassiter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

            Juliet seemed to have been thinking the same thoughts. “Maybe,” she said tentatively, “it would be better if we kept this to ourselves for now. Finish watching the videos and taking notes. I don’t think Shawn would be very happy if we brought in the Feds.”

            He nodded slowly. All the same, he didn’t want to keep watching this atrocity. Lassiter didn’t find it too difficult to reconcile this young Shawn with the one who had flounced into the interrogation viewing room earlier that way—not after the way Spencer had reacted just to seeing his rapist.

            But Lassiter was also burning with curiosity: How did Shawn escape, when he was as worse off as the boys before him (or after, depending on the chronology of the videos), so weak and helpless? It was too unlikely that the culprit had a change of heart. He cleared his throat, and motioned for Juliet to resume the recording.

            She took a deep breath and pressed play.

            _The masked rapist continued his exploration of Shawn’s body by pulling down his sweatpants and then his jalapeno boxers. More pale skin was showcased, except for his genitals, which were a shade or two darker than the rest of his skin and just beginning to grow the wiry hairs of puberty. He fondled Shawn, which caused a great deal of protest that resulted in another harsh slap, this time to his thigh._

_Shawn fell silent, but a shaking hand tried to free himself again. The rapist easily held his hands aside, and descended on the boy to perform fellatio—lapping sloppily and sucking so vigorously that blood was forced to fill the organ, causing a semi-erection that bobbled when Shawn attempted to close his legs. The man watched him struggle for a moment, then moved away._

_Off-screen, there was a short sound of a fly unzipping, and a rustle as the jeans were removed. And all too soon, the rapist was back, shuffling across the mattress on his knees with his engorged penis in hand._

_He lazily pumped it a few times, then grasped Shawn’s face again. Shawn, who had apparently relaxed when his captor moved away, jolted in surprise, eyes fluttering open again in a panic. He was hardly given a chance to gather his wits about him before the appendage was pushed into his slack mouth until his nose was buried in the nestle of pubic hair, his head held in place by a tight grip on both his jaw and hair. Shawn unsurprisingly gagged, his neglected penis beginning to flag._

_“Ouch!” hissed the man, pulling out. Shawn gasped and coughed, red in the face, drool and tears sliding down his cheeks. He received two hard slaps to either thigh, dangerously close to his developing manhood—“No! Biting!”_

_Shawn seemed to give up in exhaustion then, falling slackly back onto the nasty bed. The rapist reentered his slack mouth, and after a few minutes of thrusting pulled out again, a shiny thread of saliva clinging to the tip of his leaking head. As he moved away, the connection severed, drool sliding down Shawn’s chin. The kid’s head rolled to one side, eyes roaming unseeingly._

_Three fingers were shoved into Shawn’s mouth, wetting them. Then they traveled down to the fork between the kid’s legs, and the camera was given a view of the rapist pushing one of his captive’s knees up, giving him easy access. He pushed his first finger inside and pumped it, slowly at first, but gaining speed._

_Shawn made a noise in his throat, but was otherwise compliant, chest heaving laboriously._

_A second finger was forced inside, and the pedophile began to scissor them, stretching the orifice._

_This time the kid squirmed, trying to move away. But the rapist was not fazed. He calmly pulled out his appendages and reached behind him, dragging the tripod to a new position. Then he draped Shawn’s leg over his shoulder and used the leverage to reenter his two fingers. The sensation appeared to revive Shawn, who renewed his struggles._

_His rapist merely shushed him and continued, move his fingers faster. Then he added the third finger, which elicited a short sob. Shawn tried to drag himself away, the corner of the mattress he had grabbed to aid him lifting off the floor and upsetting his balance. It flopped back down with a springy noise._

_After a minute or two, the attacker removed the intruding fingers, instead moving his hand to fondle Shawn’s genitals as though meant to be a soothing gesture. The sudden lack of pain had made Shawn relax, but he trembled like a leaf, rolling and bucking his hips uncomfortably whenever his sensitive organ was squeezed or pulled too hard—which, the detectives could see, only enlivened the rapist’s member. It stuck straight out, rubbing grotesquely against Shawn’s buttock whenever he moved in the slightest._

_Shawn grunted as he was flipped over, one knee bypassing the soft mattress and smacking audibly against the cold concrete of the floor. The rapist didn’t seem to notice or care, merely reached back for the camera and pointed it downwards to show Shawn struggling to get up, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. Once he was fairly in the position to crawl away, the rapist lined himself up, pressing the tip of his fully erect penis to Shawn’s anus. He diverted his hand to the kid’s hip to hold him in place, then shoved himself in roughly, sending his captive sprawling forward onto his elbows with a cry._

_His sobbing began anew, but this time his would-be killer didn’t bother comforting him. He pulled out agonizingly slowly, and spit several times along his length for lubrication before he started to rut. The pace was slow and steady for a few seconds, but quickly built up to punishing speed and intensity. Shawn, too weak to hold himself up against the onslaught, put one hand behind him in a feeble attempt to buffer the sharp snap of hips, but to no avail._

Lassiter didn’t think he would be able to take any more. Somehow, though the atrocities committed against the boys were inconceivably evil, it seemed so much worse when it was Shawn Spencer, psychic detective on the receiving end of it. The head detective wouldn’t wish such a thing on his worst enemy. His jaw tightened, teeth creaking under the pressure.

            Juliet beside him was freely crying. Lassiter felt like joining her (but, of course, he didn’t).

            But finally!

            _The masked rapist pulled out completely and sat back on his haunches. He easily flipped the teen onto his back, then cupped his own testes with one hand and pumped his erection with the other. Shawn lay shivering, eyes scrunched closed and leaking tears. The pedophile moaned as he ejaculated at last, splattering semen over Shawn’s genitals. He stroked himself firmly several times to get the most out of his orgasm, then leaned forward and kissed Shawn tenderly._

_“Well done, beautiful,” he said, patting Shawn’s cheek. “You did so good. You were so good. My favorite.”_

            _The man stepped off the bed and into his pants. His footsteps receded, leaving the camera on Shawn._ A horrible chill ran up Lassiter’s spine, hairs raising on the back of his neck. The syringe was coming. He knew it.

_The teenage Shawn struggled into an upright position, looking absolutely wrecked. Tear tracks stained his red, blotchy cheeks, and saliva both dried and wet clung to his lips and chin, as well as a few red spots of blood where he might have bitten his lip. Without bothering to wipe himself of the drying semen, Shawn picked up his discarded pants and yanked them on with difficulty._

_Fast footsteps grew louder, and Shawn hastily stood, trembling like a newborn fawn._

_“Now, Shawn, lie down. Be a good boy.” A hand on Shawn’s shoulder attempted to push him gently back down to the mattress, but he desperately shook his head, eyes wide and terrified._

_“Lemme guh!” was all that he managed to slur. When he was shoved back down, he let out a blood-curdling scream that caused the audio to go fuzzy, and kicked and flailed. The rapist grasped his throat with one hand, cutting it off and holding him down at once, with the syringe held aloft in his other hand._

_“Stop that,” he grunted. “Shawn, I mean it, this is—Ohh!” Shawn’s knee made direct contact with the fork between his rapist’s legs, causing him to lose his grips on Shawn and on the syringe and to bend double._

_Shawn, with his eyes squeezed shut, didn’t realize his success and continued fighting. He twisted his body in such a way that his elbow slammed into the man’s temple, knocking him out cold._

_The kid rolled off the mattress, and the shock of the cold floor seemed to break off his struggling long enough for him to see that he had won. He stumbled to his feet, gasping and crying pitifully, and staggered out of the camera’s view. There was a fumbling sound, a faraway cry of relief, and the unmistakable creak of an opening door._

_Shawn, unlike the other boys, escaped._

Of course, the detectives had expected that, considering that he was a walking and talking presence on a daily basis at the station. They quietly agreed that Shawn had kept it a secret for some reason, hidden it so well that even his very observant father hadn’t seen the trauma. It was not an unexpected response: most victims of such crimes, especially males, never reported them—at least, not when it mattered. But Shawn would have to be confronted. Not only was his testimony invaluable in court, but it was important to his own mental health as well.

            The detectives went home and fell into bed for whatever rest they could manage.

            They had a psychic to confront in the morning.


	3. Part Two

Part Two

            “Hello?” Juliet called as she walked into the Psych office. “Shawn, are you here?”

            “Jules!” he said happily as she stepped through the main doorway with Lassiter in tow. “Lassie! Welcome to my office. Come in, come in, please!”

            Juliet gave him a smile that she hoped was normal. Her senior partner, of course, did not smile down at the psychic detective, who was lounging on the floor with a throw pillow from the couch tucked under his chest for support.

            “Can I interest you both in a game of marbles? I have to warn you, though: I’m winning. I’m ahead of myself by nearly fifty points.”

            “Where’s Guster?” Lassiter asked.

            “Learning how to rope good, hard-working people into the drug industry,” Shawn replied flippantly, staring intensely at the game before him.

            “So, a conference,” Juliet said, raising an amused eyebrow.

            “I’ve heard it both ways.”

            “Spencer,” Lassiter said, tone all business. “We need to talk to you about—“

            “Hey,” he interrupted, shooting a big marble into the cluster and breaking it, “are you guys in or no? You can still catch up if you try hard enough.”

            “Spencer, we—“

            “These green ones are worth five points because they’re pretty. But the clear ones are only worth half a point because obviously they didn’t try hard enough. No participation trophies.”

            The detectives were silent for a moment, and Shawn did not try to explain anything further—so he was merely trying to evade the topic that he knew was coming. There was a tightness around his shadowed eyes and mouth that bespoke a night of troubling thoughts.

            So Juliet slipped out of her heels and sat down, grateful that she’d chosen that day to wear slacks rather than a skirt. She picked up one of the big marbles with the swirl of color inside the glass. She looked up at Lassiter meaningfully, who returned with an incredulous look. After a short facial expression battle, Lassiter relented (well, _lost_ ) and joined them after snagging a couch cushion.

            “How do we play?” he asked grudgingly, picking up the nearest big marble.

            Juliet and Shawn gave him a scandalized look. He scowled.

            “Traditionally,” Shawn said slowly, as though speaking to a child, “you’re supposed to have a circle with ten or thirteen marbles. But I put eighty in there so the game lasts longer and the stakes are higher. These big marbles are called shooters. You hold it like this,” he demonstrated squeezing the shooter between his thumb and the first knuckle of his forefinger, “and aim it at the marble circle. You want to knock as many out of the circle as you can in one try, and whatever ones get knocked out are yours. Whoever has the most points at the end wins.”

            “It requires great skill, Carlton,” Juliet added. “Skill that you won’t have, seeing how you’ve never played Ringer before.”

            “Jules, this isn’t Ringer. It’s Marbles.”

            “In Miami we call it Ringer, ‘cause the marbles are in a circle.”

            “But do you see a circle, Jules?”

            “It’s imaginary, Shawn.”

            “It’s—Jules, as long as you’re in my house we’re calling it Marbles.”

            “This isn’t your house.”

            Lassiter rolled his eyes. “All right! Let’s just get started. I’ll show you who’s got skills, O’Hara. You’re both going down.”

            Shawn grinned. “Don’t count your cows before they hatch, Lassifrass.”

            “You mean chickens.”

            “I’ve heard it both ways.”

            “Who’s going first?” Juliet asked.

            Shawn gestured to her. “Prettiest goes first, so it’s you, me, and then Lassie with his strong Irish hairline.”

            Juliet adjusted the marble in her hand and aimed it at the cluster. A sharp squeeze sent the ball shooting, and several _clacks_ sounded as the marbles struck. She reached forward to retrieve her shooter and the three she had displaced.

            “Nice one!” Shawn said. Then he hunkered down toward the floor, lining up his now serious gaze and his own shooter. It snapped forward.

            The junior detective made an amazed noise in her throat as eleven marbles detached from their group and rolled away. “That was so cool, Shawn!” she said genuinely. “I’ve never seen one shot take so many before.”

            The pseudo-psychic grinned swiftly. “I know.”

            “All right, all right,” Lassiter said. “It’s my turn.”

            He glared angrily at the shooter in his hand, and then at the ring of balls. He shot it.

            The shooter skimmed the edge of the cluster, knocking one of place, and then rolled away under Shawn’s desk. Shawn reached out to stop its progress and handed it back to Lassiter, who was frowning severely.

            “Don’t worry Det. Grumpypants,” Shawn said cheerfully. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

            Juliet took her turn, successfully gaining several more, while Shawn took more than should have been possible without a physics degree. Lassiter did better on his next turn. So they played on, mostly in silence but occasionally egging each other on, with Lassiter growing more competitive the more marbles he earned.

            But, of course, Shawn won easily.

            “Whatever,” Lassiter said irritably. “It’s a stupid children’s game. I don’t know why I played it with you two! O’Hara, you should have known better than to get drawn into it.”

            Shawn and Juliet only laughed at him.

            The Head Detective grudgingly rolled his eyes and began to gather up his marbles. Shawn produced an empty cookie tin which had been scribbled all over in variously colored marker, and read in a childish scribble: _Gus and SHaWN’S MaRbLeS!_

            For a moment there was only the musical sound of marbles falling into the tin.

            The atmosphere grew heavy again.

            “Shawn…” Juliet tried as he pressed the lid over his box.

            He said nothing and did not look over, apparently intently focused on making sure his marbles were safely secured.

            Again, Lassiter and Juliet shared a look.

            They knew they needed to establish a safe environment for Shawn so he would feel comfortable enough to talk, but what could be safer than his own office? Lassiter made a motion that he would leave them alone, but Juliet shook her head frantically. Another facial battle, one to rival those of Shawn and Gus, ensued.

            “Look,” Shawn said sharply, interrupting them. He wore a more serious expression than either detective was used to. Then he seemed a bit taken aback, and a little irritated. The psychic averted his gaze, still frowning, and said, “Don’t look at me like that.”

            The detectives didn’t know how else to look, and tried on a different face—Lassiter attempted to make himself look less severe than usual, while Juliet opted to try a more neutral expression—that only served to make them both look uncomfortable and awkward.

            Shawn blew out a frustrated sigh. “It was my fault, I know. I should have…I was supposed to…Never mind. Anyway, you want my testimony. I’ll give it. But not right now.”

            Neither Juliet nor Lassiter had expected to hear self-blame from Shawn. She opened her mouth to refute it, but her senior partner beat her to the punch and exclaimed, “Sweet justice, Spencer, why didn’t you _tell_ anyone?”

            “Carlton!” Juliet hissed.

            Shawn fixated him with a glare that bordered and hurt and bitter. “Didn’t tell anyone?” he repeated, with a harsh laugh that did not suit his character at all. “Why don’t you ask the head detective of the SBPD from ’90 to ’95? See what _he_ remembers from that night. Let _him_ lecture you about stranger danger and responsibility and his—and his stupid reputation! _I’m_ the victim, but _he_ —“ his jaw clicked shut as he seemed to realize that he had just incriminated an officer of the law, but he couldn’t unsay what had been said.

            After a terse moment of silence in which the detectives reeled, Shawn quietly turned on his heel and walked away to the back of the office. A moment later they heard the bathroom door shut, and the faint sound of running water.

            Lassiter gritted his teeth. If there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was a bad cop. “Come on, O’Hara.”

            Juliet followed obediently, clearly upset.

###

            They all had on their poker faces.

            Lassiter and Juliet sat on one side of the cold interrogation table, while former SBPD Head Detective Henry Spencer took the remaining chair, meeting their stares straight on. All three of them ignored the tape recorder in the center of the table.

            At last, he broke the silence. “You gonna tell me what this is about, detectives?” The lightness of his tone belied annoyance at the unexplained interruption of his workday.

            Juliet spoke, voice crisp and clear, “Mr. Spencer, do you recall one afternoon in which you were late picking up your son from his dance practice?”

            The elder Spencer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a wry chuckle left his lips. “Well, Detective, there were many such afternoons. You’ll have to be more specific.”

            “Perhaps when you arrived, Shawn was not waiting at the school for you.”

            “Ah,” he said, rolling his eyes and running a palm over his balding head. “Yes, yes, I remember _that_ night.”

            Before either detective could ask him another question, he continued without humor:

            “Listen, I don’t know what Shawn told you, but he probably dramatized the entire thing. I’m telling you that everything that happened was his fault, not anyone else’s.”

            For a moment, Lassiter and Juliet could only gape at him incredulously. Henry folded his arms over his broad chest challengingly.

            “Did you report _anything_?” Lassiter demanded, eyebrows making a V over widened eyes.

            “No,” Henry responded gruffly. “No, I didn’t, Detective. I had a reputation to uphold, and if people knew that _my_ kid had been involved in that sort of thing, how would it reflect on me?”

            Seeing that Henry was entering dangerous territory with her partner, Juliet cut in, legs shaking beneath the table. “Why don’t you just start from the beginning? For the recorder.”

            He gave a put-upon sigh. “There’s really not much to tell, Detective,” he said. “I was late picking him up from his little dancing practice, and when I got there he wasn’t waiting on the curb like he was supposed to be. So I hunted all over the school for him, and he wasn’t there. Of course, I assumed he’d gotten a ride home from one of his friends and didn’t call me, and I went home, but he wasn’t there, either.

            “I waited up for hours, long past dark. No phone call, no nothing.

            “And then he finally came stumbling in around three in the morning, no shoes or bag, and threw up on the brand-new rug. And wouldn’t you be pissed off?

            “This is probably the part that Shawn exaggerated, but I can promise you that it’s nowhere near as bad as he made it sound. I shouted at him, and yeah, smacked him _once_ to make him stop gibbering whatever nonsense excuse he was making. Then I put him in a cold shower, got rid of his disgusting clothes, and tucked him into bed.

            “Shawn was sick for a few days afterward—no surprise since he’s never been able to handle his alcohol—dramatically claiming to be so _very_ ill that he couldn’t even walk. Obviously that’s not team behavior, so I made him apologize to his dance team and quit since he wasn’t responsible enough to be a part of it. I banned him from any and all teams until such time that he could prove himself worthy of them, and he never put in any effort, so he missed his chance. His fault.”

            Finished, Henry sat back and made a shrugging gesture as though to say that he’d done nothing wrong.

            Both detectives were staring at him, shocked and appalled.

            “No wonder he’s so messed up!” Lassiter exclaimed, forgetting the recorder. For once, he was completely on the pseudo-psychic’s side.

            Henry frowned. “Excuse me?!”

            “How could you?” Juliet demanded, finding her voice. “How could you punish your son for something like that?”

            Affronted, Henry turned on her. “What would _you_ do if your child directly disobeyed you, got drunk at a party, and apparently had such a good time that he’d made a mess in his underpants?”

            Lassiter and Juliet froze, anger dissipating into confusion.

            “Shawn told you he was at a party?”

            The elder Spencer squared his shoulders. “No, but he didn’t need to. I’m not an idiot. I can piece together evidence just fine, thank you.”

            Lassiter took a deep, calming breath, while Juliet put her face in her hand.

            “You didn’t listen to him,” she said.

            By that time Henry was beginning to feel a bit misunderstood. “What are you talking about?”

            The partners shared a look. “Excuse us for a minute.”

            To Henry’s outrage, he was left alone in the room. He frowned and tried to replay everything he remembered of that night, tried to make sense of the noises that had been spilling from Shawn’s lips. Obviously he’d missed something important.

            “What do we tell him?” Juliet asked, worrying her bottom lip. “He’s completely misinterpreted the entire situation.”

            “We can’t keep the truth from him,” Lassiter said. “If we’re taking this bastard to trial, Henry will find out about it, especially considering his son is involved.”

            “But we can’t just walk in there and tell him that Shawn was r…you know!”

            “Damn it, O’Hara, we have to!”

            “Have to what, Detectives?” asked a voice behind them.

            They turned, startled, to see Chief Vick standing with a cup of coffee, blowing gently to cool it before taking a sip. She raised an intimidating eyebrow when they hesitated.

            “Well,” Lassiter said, “it’s about the child pornography case, Chief, and our…findings.”

            She glanced at the closed door past them and made a shrew guess. “Questioning our surviving vic’s father?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “If I know Henry,” she said, “he’ll find out eventually, whether anyone tells him or not. Perhaps in this situation, words aren’t your best course of action.”

            “What do you mean?” Juliet frowned.

            The Chief only gave the pair a meaningful look, then continued on her way.

            Once she was out of earshot, Lassiter said quietly, “We’re going to show him the evidence.”

            “The video?” Juliet confirmed. “But that’s _way_ against policy.”

            “He’s going to find it one way or another,” Lassiter argued wearily. “Might as well get it over with. We can leave him in the room alone for a while, let him sort through…”

            They stood contemplatively, both trying to think of an easier way to break the terrible news to their coworker. But there was none.

            It would be a blow to Henry to find out what had really happened, and neither detective wanted to deliver it. The all-knowing Chief had understood this before they had, and had offered them a get out of jail free card with the DVD.

            Juliet opened the door. “Mr. Spencer,” she said, and he looked up. “Come with us, please.”

            He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

            Lassiter led the way to the evidence room and located the correct video to put in the player, while Juliet placed a rolling chair in front of the television. Henry felt sharp fingernails raking his insides, but said, “I have better things to do than watch teenagers drink and paw at each other, Detectives.”

            “You’ll want to sit down, Mr. Spencer,” Juliet told him gently.

            “We’ll be in the bull pen,” Lassiter said, handing him the remote. “It autoplays.”

            With that, the detectives were gone.

            Of course they pitied him, but neither felt too sympathetically toward the man. Shawn had lived with the terrible demon that was victim-blaming for over fifteen years.

            Lassiter and Juliet, finding nothing to speak about, went to their respective desks and busied themselves. They worked especially hard on putting together their reports on the case. With the only evidence being the masked man in the video, Shawn’s future testimony, and the fact that their perp was in possession of the videos, they had a good chance of persecution. Whether the man in custody was the rapist himself was yet to be determined, and would be difficult to do, unless Shawn could positively identify him (which Lassiter believed he could, considering his reaction to seeing the “bad man” the previous day). They also still needed to find out who the other boys were, and whether their bodies had been found—any evidence found on them could incriminate the rapist, and it might provide DNA for comparison.

            It was long after the run time of the DVD that Henry reemerged from downstairs, looking haggard and ten years older. He made his way over to the detectives, who respectfully stood.

            “He’s been arrested?” he asked.

            “The man in possession of pornography is in custody,” Lassiter informed him. “We have yet to determine whether he is the man in the video, but either way he will be prosecuted.”

            Henry nodded wearily, and without another word turned and strode away.

            Lassiter followed him with his sharp gaze to be sure that Henry didn’t go down to the holding cells to exact old-fashioned justice, but Henry just clocked out early and left the station, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He and his junior partner went back to work.

###

            At the end of the day, Lassiter had offered Juliet a ride home, which she gratefully accepted. He, on the other hand, came to regret it, because she wanted to talk about _feelings_ , which he, as a manly man, did not like.

            “Poor Shawn,” she sighed.

            He grunted noncommittally, trying to avoid the subject.

            Juliet was persistent. “I can’t believe Henry didn’t listen to him. Shawn couldn’t have been more than fifteen…He hadn’t been through puberty when it happened. He was just a kid.”

            “I feel bad for him, O’Hara, but there’s no point in being all sad about it now,” Lassiter said firmly. “The best we can do is catch the bastard and bring him to justice.”

            “Yeah,” she agreed. There was silence for a moment as Lassiter slowed for a red light and made a right turn. When the car picked up speed again, she started anew. “I just feel so awful, Carlton. Maybe we should get Shawn a pineapple.”

            Lassiter mentally counted to ten, as his therapist had told him. “I think he’s got enough pineapples, O’Hara.”

            “I’ll buy him some chocolate-chip pancakes tomorrow morning,” she said. “If I get up early enough, I can—oh, but he might still be sleeping, because I’d have to get there by six if I want to get to work on time.”

            “O’Hara, I don’t think Spencer would want your pancakes of pity.”

            “It’s not pity! I just want to do something nice for him.”

            “He’ll see it as pity, O’Hara. The only other time you’ve gotten him something was after he got shot. That was a milkshake of pity.”

            “Do you think I should wait a few days, then?” she asked. “Because he really likes pancakes, and—“ She was cut off by the shrill ring of her phone, which she hurriedly dug out of her pocket and checked. “It’s Shawn,” she said, slightly surprised. “Hello?”

            Lassiter pulled into the parking lot of Juliet’s apartment complex and put the car in park. He sat back and listened to Juliet, frowning when her voice changed to one of concern.

            “Shawn?” she asked. “Are you all right? You sound, um, sick.”

            There was a pause as she listened to him.

            “No, Shawn, no, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. No one is going to make you testify, okay?”

            Lassiter frowned. Shawn’s testimony was critical to the case, but it was impossible to force it out of him. They could probably made do without it, though prosecution would be considerably weakened.

            “Where are you, Shawn?...Okay, what are you…What are you doing, Shawn? What’s that noise?” Juliet asked, raising her voice slightly so that Shawn would hear her over whatever the sound was.

            Her partner was growing more anxious by the second, glaring at her with eyes that demanded to know what was going on. But he didn’t interrupt, seeing as she was having difficulty hearing the man on the other line.

            “Shawn, you don’t _have_ a foosball table at your apartment.” Another short pause. “Shawn, what are you doing? Seriously, what’s that sound?...Shawn?”

            She called his name several more times, but from the alarmed look she gave Lassiter, he surmised that he was no longer answering. Wordlessly, Lassiter reversed the car and peeled out of the lot in the direction of Shawn’s place.

            Juliet continued saying Shawn’s name into her phone, occasionally checking that she still had connection, as though she thought perhaps there were something wrong with the speaker. When a couple of minutes had passed and she still had not gotten a response, Lassiter rolled down his window and set his flashing siren on the roof, picking up speed.

            They arrived at his apartment in record time. The windows were dark, and for a split second Lassiter thought that Shawn might have lied about being home. But they moved forward anyway.

            Juliet knocked on the door and called his name, but there was no answer. She tried the doorknob, and found it unlocked.

            As they entered, the smell of alcohol and greasy food met them. Lassiter ran his hand along the wall until he found the switch, and flicked the lights on to reveal a mess. Beer cans and taco wrappers littered the floor and covered the coffee table. Shawn was lying on the floor, slumped back against the footrest of his La-Z-Boy recliner. His phone was in his hand, which rested on the floor at his hip.

            While Juliet went to check on him, Lassiter counted the beer cans. There were six cans, and about twelve taco wrappers. He wasn’t surprised when his partner said that Shawn did not display any symptoms of alcohol poison. He was slightly annoyed that they’d rushed over for him when it was nothing serious, but decided to cut him a break considering the circumstances.

            “Spencer, wake up,” he said, shaking him.

            Shawn roused, bleary-eyed and cranky. “Wha’?” he murmured, swatting Juliet’s hands away from his face.

            “Get up. You’ll be more comfortable in your bed.” Lassiter stooped down and tugged encouragingly on his arm.

            “ ‘M fine,” Shawn said, trying to curl up on the floor again.

            “No, you don’t,” the head detective said, pulling more insistently.

            “Stooop.”

            “Come on, Shawn,” Juliet tried. “Come to bed.”

            “Nooo, listen,” Shawn slurred. “M’dad’s a p’lice ossifer, so leave me ‘lone.” Then he made himself comfortable again, dropping his phone with a clatter.

            Juliet sat back on her heels, frustrated, but Lassiter was having none of it. Shawn would have to be manhandled to his bed, which was about ten feet away.

            “Get his legs,” he said shortly, squatting behind Shawn and looping his arms around the younger man’s chest. Juliet gripped the backs of his knees and lifted as Lassiter did. Shawn had slipped back into sleep and did not protest the movement.

            Together they maneuvered him into his bed and rolled him into the recovery position just in case. Juliet flipped the blanket over him, then retrieved his phone from the floor and brought it back to his bedside table to plug into the charger. Lassiter went to the back and found a clean glass to fill with water, and spotted a bottle of aspirin on the counter, from which he took two. As Juliet texted Shawn that he could call her if he wanted to talk, Lassiter brought the medicine and water and set them on the night stand next to the phone.

            Juliet nodded approvingly at his kindness, and they left quietly so that he could sleep it off peacefully.

            As Lassiter was giving her a ride home (again), it occurred to Juliet that Gus probably didn’t know. Considering that his own father, a police officer, had blamed him for what had happened, Shawn probably hadn’t told anyone, not even his mother. Despite it having been a tragic misunderstanding on the elder Spencer’s part, Juliet felt extremely angry at Henry. She was sure that if he had listened to his son, Shawn would have gotten immediately help, the rapist would have been caught, and those poor boys who came after Shawn would still be alive.

            She took a breath and calmed herself. It was in the past, and Henry probably felt badly enough for all of them.

            Her thoughts turned instead to the beginning of the video, of how happy Shawn had looked during the dance practice, how wonderful he’d been at it. She wondered what kind of person he’d have been if he’d been allowed to remain on the team—if he’d have wanted to stay on, after all that. He really was a good dancer.

            She decided that she’d ask him to go dancing with her sometime.


	4. Part Three

Part Three

            The next morning, Juliet half expected to have gotten a call or a text from Shawn, but none came. As the day creeped on and the sun traversed the sky into afternoon, she still had not gotten anything. She was beginning to consider asking Lassiter if they should check on him during their lunch break, because surely he would have woken up by then, even if it was with a raging hangover.

            But then Shawn popped up in the bull pen with a pineapple smoothie in hand, a giant pair of carnival sunglasses balanced precariously on his face, and speaking loudly into his cell phone. As he came closer, it became apparent that he was arguing with Gus about something, but when he noticed that Lassiter and Juliet (as well as several other officers) were staring at him, he said, “I’ve heard it both ways. Ooh, gotta go. Lassie and Jules need me for something important!”

            He pressed the end call button, cutting off the indistinct gabble of Gus’ voice, and beamed at his friends. “I could feel you thinking about me,” he said, as though to explain his presence. Shawn removed the glasses from his face and folded one leg into the collar of his shirt, revealing tired bags under his eyes.

            Juliet managed to return the smile, though she was slightly confused at Shawn’s behavior. He was acting as though nothing had happened, even though one could tell just be looking at him that something was wrong. Lassiter, on the other hand, gave the psychic his usual scowl.

            “Oh,” Shawn said, catching the glare, “and that reminds me.”

            He set the condensating smoothie down on Lassiter’s casework and dug into his pocket. Shawn pulled out a thick wad of paper that had been folded one too many times, and opened it to reveal that it was actually several pages together, written on front to back. He used the edge of Lassiter’s desk to smooth out the creases.

            Both detectives then looked more curious than anything else.

            Shawn handed the papers to Lassiter and then picked up his smoothie again to take a long, obnoxious slurp. As the detective skimmed the messy scrawl, squinting at the places where the ink had smudged, Shawn’s eyes darted about the room.

            “This is—“ Lassiter started, eyebrows drawn together.

            “My dad’s not here?” Shawn asked, raising his eyebrows casually. “I didn’t think he had the day off.”

            They glanced over to see that Henry’s desk was devoid of his presence.

            “Well,” Juliet said awkwardly, “we…well…”

            “Ah,” Shawn said, nodding once. “Anyway, I’ve got to go run some errands. If Gus really wanted me to take care of the plants in his apartment he should have left explicit instructions to do so—how was I supposed to know they need to be watered twice a day? Don’t lose those, Lassifrass. I worked on them all day.”

            With that, he flounced off to buy Gus some new house plants.

            Juliet looked at her senior partner inquiringly as he frowned down at the papers. He didn’t doubt for a second that it had taken several agonizing hours to write.

            “It’s his statement,” he supplied when her gaze became more intense. “We’ll be able to put this guy away for a long, long time, even if we can’t pin him for murder.”

            Her expression became a cross between relieved and pitying, and Lassiter was sure that he looked the same.

###

            When Shawn put his mind to it, he was a really good cook.

            But Henry wasn’t going to lecture his son about it, and didn’t even say anything when Shawn used the fish spatula for the steaks he was cooking on the stove. In fact, Henry felt more like an inanimate object than anything else, or perhaps a really disgusting slug. Yeah, that sounded about right.

            It had been a day since he’d watched that horrendous film, seen his son violated in that every-parent’s-worst-nightmare sort of way, heard his son crying as it happened. Shawn wasn’t one to cry helplessly, so that was a sure sign that Shawn had known, despite his drugged and disoriented state, what had been going on, that he knew he was probably going to be killed when the deed was done, that he was scared witless—and rightfully so.

            Henry hadn’t been there to stop it, hadn’t even helped him after his escape.

            The longer he thought about it, the more vivid his memories of that day became.

            He’d been late picking Shawn up from dance practice not because of his job, but because he was standing around talking with his partner, laughing about something he couldn’t even remember, while his son was being drugged and kidnapped. While his son was being (he shuddered to even think of the word) raped, Henry was at home watching TV, eating a microwave dinner. While Shawn had fought and stumbled to freedom, no shoes or jacket in the cold night, possibly with no idea at first where he was and the terrifying feeling that he was being followed, Henry had stewed more in anger than in worry, thought up appropriate punishments that ranged from a grounding to a good old-fashioned spanking. When Shawn had finally arrived home, looking like shit on the bottom of his shoe, Henry had slapped him hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek, had hauled him around roughly by the back of his dirty shirt, had stuck him in a cold shower that had made Shawn shriek like he was being burned and writhe and try to escape the stream of water, had practically thrown him into his bed and ordered him to sleep it off, to _lie down and be good for once in your damned life_ , had ignored the faint sound of his son crying down the hall when he’d gone to bed himself. Henry had thrown away all the evidence, had told Shawn to shut up, that it had been his own fault that any of it had happened, that he had deserved the punishment Henry meted out. He’d never told Maddie when she’d returned from her work trip, and apparently neither had Shawn.

            Henry had thought that Shawn was entering his teenage rebellious phase with a bang, as he was wont to do things, hadn’t even realized that Shawn was acting out more than ever in an attempt to get attention, maybe even sympathy from his negligent (borderline _abusive_ ) father. Over the years, the act had become his nature.

            Henry was the one at fault.

            He’d pushed Shawn headfirst over the line that had eventually led to Shawn buying a death trap of a vehicle and driving off, not to speak to him for a decade.

            Idly he tried to remember what it was that Maddie had told him about people who had been traumatized at a young age. Something about revictimization, in which the victim unconsciously sought out similar traumas to that first one. He felt sick, wondering how much of Shawn’s acting out was just to get a rise out of Henry in order to reproduce that night when his father had victim-blamed him. And then he really thought he might vomit when he wondered whether Shawn had sought out a relationship with a man to reproduce the r—no, he wouldn’t think of it.

            So caught up in his miserable thoughts he didn’t even notice that Shawn had finished cooking until he set a plate in front of him. Shawn sat on the other side of the table, chair scraping noisily across the floor.

            Henry glanced down at his plate. Everything was in perfect order: steak juicy and cooked just the way he liked it, none of the vegetables touching, the brown gravy dolloped into a small valley in the mound of potatoes so that it didn’t bleed everywhere. Shawn was already eating, uncharacteristically quiet. The only thing he’d said upon his surprise visit was, “You’re a mess, Dad. I can’t do this with you right now. Go take a shower.” And then he’d meandered into the kitchen, leaving a hungover, stubbly, and sour-breathed Henry blinking on the couch where he’d fallen asleep the previous night. He’d done as his son asked, then joined him in the kitchen and watched him prepare their meal.

            They ate in silence, the only sound being the clinking of silverware on ceramic, the soft thunk of a glass being set down after a sip. The quiet was nearly overwhelming, suffocating, and Henry had the idea that this was what it was like for Shawn, that this was why he constantly filled silence with inane chatter or some obnoxious noise. He wondered if that aversion to silence he’d always had had been compounded by what had happened.

            He had to break it.

            “It’s good,” he told Shawn.

            Shawn nodded absently. “I used your fish spatula. You should consider the benefits of using labeled things for activities unrelated to their specified uses. Chainsaws make good hedge clippers, and Styrofoam packing chips work just as well as ball pit balls, but my managers didn’t seem inclined to agree with that, or that kid’s parents.”

            Henry halfheartedly rolled his eyes. The image of a helpless, fourteen year old Shawn’s eyes rolling as he struggled to stay conscious flashed through his mind, and Henry fought the sudden urge to be sick.

            “Bone in your corn?”

            He looked up at the teasing question to see Shawn smirking at him, but there was a not quite hidden tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his almost wary eyes. And Henry realized that some part of Shawn fully expected for Henry to blame him still for what had happened, for Henry to believe that Shawn should have seen it coming somehow, that Shawn could have prevented it. That Shawn had deserved it.

            The elder Spencer set his fork down, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to eat any more. It turned to ash in his mouth.

            Shawn tracked the movement with his eyes, aware that some kind of lecture was coming. Henry watched Shawn brace himself for a verbal lashing, and it broke his heart.

            “I am so sorry,” he said, his voice coming out like a rush of wind through dry leaves.

            Shawn seemed taken aback, fork held loosely and forgotten in the hand that rested on the table. He still looked wary, definitely uncomfortable, but it was clear that Shawn needed to hear his father vindicate him. There was that familiar spark of hope in his eyes, the same look he’d gotten as a child when he wanted to be praised for something. The very look that was often clouded over with disappointment when Henry had instead found something to criticize. But he couldn’t let his son down. Not now. Not this time.

            Henry forced his voice out of his too-tight throat, desperate to alleviate his son at least in this small way.

            “I should have listened to you, Shawn. I should have looked for you at the school and asked around to see if anyone saw you leave. I should have picked you up on time. I should have been there, Shawn. But I wasn’t. _I_ failed _you_. Shawn, it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? If I could go back, I’d…It was not your fault.” He bit back the ‘son’ that nearly rolled off his tongue. How dare he, Henry, insinuate that he was any kind of father?

            Fathers didn’t make mistakes like that.

            Shawn was staring at him with wide eyes, his breathing a bit quick. Henry felt a crushing weight in his throat, but he swallowed the lump back, willed his tears to stay. He didn’t want to embarrass his son at such a crucial moment, and hoped that he saw the popping vein not for anger, but for the strain it was.

            And then Shawn grinned—not a fake one, he was sure—and he instantly felt the crushing weight shift. He hoped it was enough for Shawn to start to heal, to forget the truly awful things Henry had said and done.

            “Hey, Dad, the football game’s coming on. Let’s move it to the couch before we miss all the home runs!” Shawn scooped up his dinner and rushed out without a backwards glance, giving Henry a moment to compose himself.

            As he got up to follow his only child, the one he had come so close to losing too many times to count, Henry shot off a quick prayer of thanks to God that he’d been given this chance of redemption, and swore that he’d be a better father even this late in life.

            He was so grateful that he didn’t tell Shawn that home runs were baseball, not football, and he didn’t dare remind him that he hated watching sports.


	5. Epilog

Epilog

            “Shawn, is there something you want to tell me?”

            Shawn, feet kicked up on his desk as he flicked through a copy of Gus’ _Safecracker_ magazine, glanced up at him, who had only returned from his convention that evening. He pursed his lips faux-thoughtfully. “Hmmmm. No.”

            Gus narrowed his eyes. “There’s something different…I can feel it.”

            Shawn raised his eyebrows, appraising his best friend. “I don’t know what you mean, buddy.”

            “Yes, you…” His eyes widened. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

            “Yes, but it is nothing of import, honest! I only lost my marbles.”

            “Lost your—“

            Gus immediately looked concerned. He set his stuff down and moved closer to Shawn, then proceeded to stare hard, as though judging the sincerity of his words. He took in the dark rings under his friend’s eyes, the almost grayish pallor of his skin. Shawn didn’t look sick exactly, but he certainly appeared as though he’d gone through some sort of ordeal that had left him exhausted.

            Shawn waved him off before he could take his temperature. “I’m fine, Gus! Listen, the Chief is going to give us a case tomorrow, so we should get a good night’s rest tonight. Ooh, will you hand me the remote?”

            Gus obliged, crossing the room to retrieve the TV remote, which was on his desk. But as he turned, he suddenly slipped and landed hard on his back with a sharp squeal of pain.

            The sound of a small marble rolling away was drowned out by Shawn’s exuberant cry, “You found one of my marbles!”

            Gus groaned. “I think I bruised my coccyx again…”

 

END.


End file.
